


A Convenient Regency Marriage

by Diana Williams (dkwilliams), dkwilliams



Series: The Watsons of Saughton [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/Diana%20Williams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/pseuds/dkwilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was 27 years old when he realized that he had everything he needed in life except for one thing.</p><p>A husband.</p><p>Not that he wanted a husband.  It's just that having one would be very convenient to the Work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Timely Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked by a couple of readers to write some of the key chapters from Sherlock's POV, so here it is. This will combine both "Watson's Folly" and "Three Continents Watson" chapters, so there will be sex. Graphic sex. Just, you know, in case you need the warning.
> 
> Slightly renamed because I totally forgot that I had another story (in HP fandom) the same name.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John Watson - again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of that momentous canon meeting on this day in 1881.

Sherlock Holmes was 27 years old when he realized that he had everything he needed in life except for one thing.  
  
A husband.  
  
Not that he _wanted_ a husband.  The idea of having an Alpha constantly underfoot and lording it over him for the rest of his life was, quite frankly, appalling.  He already had Mycroft ordering him about and at least he could appeal to his brother's familial instincts.  A husband would feel no such compunction and could, in fact, make his life even less bearable than it currently was.  
  
Not that his life was intolerable.  He had been educated at an excellent public school and had studied at Cambridge, although he hadn't been allowed to receive a degree.  He had a generous allowance from the Funds that made up his inheritance, enough to dress in the best of fashion and still have enough to pursue his various interests.  He lived in a mansion in the newly fashionable area of Russell Square that would be the envy of most.  And most of all, he had the Work.  
  
It was no doubt a flaw in his character that he wanted more.  
  
He didn't just want the Work - he wanted the recognition that came with it.  Not fame, he didn't have the same ambitions as Mycroft, but he wanted to be known as THE expert in his field.  There was no point in creating a career if no one knew about it, after all.  He wanted to be able to testify in court and to be called by the Coroner as an expert witness.    
  
And while Russell Square was nice, it was and always would be Mycroft's house.  He wanted a home of his own, where he could conduct his experiments and leave messes as he pleased.  He wanted a place to receive clients and where he could play his violin in solitude.  And he'd found just the right location at Baker Street.  Mrs. Hudson, a former client, had received 221 Baker Street as a gift from a former admirer but found it too large and empty for her to bear alone.  She was delighted to let him use the 1st floor as his private lab and he could tolerate her company like that of few others.  However, Mycroft would never agree that a Beta middle-aged former Prima Ballerina could be an adequate chaperone.  
  
It was enough to drive a man to seek out artificial stimulants to dull the boredom, and Sherlock had indulged in those for a period of time a few years ago, until Mycroft had threatened to cut off his allowance.  Fortunately, Sherlock had grown tired of the opium dens and other such indulgences were too boring to contemplate.

So - a husband it would have to be.  Only it couldn't just be any husband.  Sherlock couldn't bear to have one of those sporting types thundering in and out of the house, laughing too loud and indulging in stupid wagers such as rubbing spokes with the Royal Mail.  With his luck, he'd go to all the trouble of getting a husband only to become a widower and have to start all over again.  
  
Nor a Tulip of the Ton, one of those absurd caricatures with his collar so starched and his cravat so intricate that he would be unable to turn his head, looking like a blinkered horse.  A husband like that would be more concerned about the fit of his coat and the scent of his pomade than about the details of Sherlock's latest case, and what good was a husband if one couldn't boast to him a bit?  Not to mention that a Dandy like that would turn up his nose and refuse to accompany Sherlock to the more shady parts of London, so it would be worse than not having a husband at all.  
  
And he couldn't tolerate one of Prinny's set, even the younger members, with their over-indulgence at the table and in the bedroom.  He couldn't bear to have one of those gluttonous rakes touch him, and it would be mortifying to have one's husband be the subject of every on dit.  He wouldn't mind if his husband kept a mistress - he would infinitely prefer not to have the man expect Sherlock to meet his sexual needs - but to have her paraded about on his husband's arm would be the ultimate humiliation.  
  
The man would have to be intelligent enough to hold a decent conversation across the dinner table.  There was no point in expecting him to understand Sherlock's work - and after Victor Trevor's disastrous courtship he had learned the folly of two highly intelligent men trying to spend much time together.  Egos were bound to be wounded in that situation, and a lifetime like that would drive one of them to murder.  
  
Decent-looking, too, Sherlock decided.  After all, they would have to spend some time together and he couldn't stare at the walls all the time.  And with a sense of humour, for twenty years spent living with his brother had taught him the value of that.    
  
And so with his list of requirements in mind, Sherlock set about the process of finding a candidate to fit them.

* * *

  
Of course Mycroft, being obnoxious and controlling, had to ruin it all by finding some impoverished lordling in a misguided plan to thrust their family up the social ladder like some ill-bred mushrooms.  Sherlock fumed at the news that this Earl of Saughton had been invited to dinner and that Sherlock was expected to attend and to be polite, with a not-too-subtle hint that Lestrade might be barred from involving him in his cases if Sherlock didn't perform to expectations.  Sherlock snarled and sniped, he refused to change into evening clothes and put in a very late appearance, certain that this affront would drive off all but the most desperate fortune hunter, only to find (to his chagrin) that he had nearly spiked his own gun.  
  
The man sitting in the  parlour was as far from Sherlock's experience with the Ton as possible and, moreover, he was not a stranger.  Even before the Earl rose to remind him of their previous meeting, Sherlock's mind palace had produced a memory of meeting a not-boring army surgeon several years earlier.  Unable to stop himself, he rattled off the recent events in Lord Saughton's life and was met with a second surprise.  
  
John Watson said that he was amazing.  
  
For the first time that Sherlock could remember, he was struck speechless.  No one thought that Sherlock was amazing, not even Mycroft - as he proved a minute later when he disparaged Sherlock's manners.  And then this ordinary-looking, fascinating man delivered a third surprise.  
  
He snubbed Mycroft and invited Sherlock to deduce more about him.  
  
No one had ever come back for a second helping of Sherlock's devastating deductions, but not only had Lord Saughton done that, he had been delighted with Sherlock's explanation of how he had come by his conclusions.  And, wonder of wonders, he hadn't remarked that it was so obvious when Sherlock explained it like that.  No, he'd called it incredible.  
  
It was more exhilarating than cocaine and more soothing than opium.  Sherlock thought that he could quite easily get addicted to that sort of response.  
  
So of course he invited John Watson to accompany him to the newest crime scene.  He had to be certain that the Doctor had the right sort of constitution to stick the gruesome side of the cases that were Sherlock's bread and butter.  Blooding his potential life-partner, as it were.  
  
Later, when reviewing the events to properly slot them into his mind palace, he wondered very briefly why this had been so important to him, but then he dismissed the thought as unimportant.  
  
John Watson, the 9th Earl of Saughton, would make a very convenient husband.


	2. Wedded Bliss?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John embark upon married life together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little dab of a chapter, to get through the business leading up to Baskerville and start catching up to the main story. 
> 
> Covers "Watson's Folly" from Chapter 7 through Chapter 29 - or roughly from their first case up to Irene Adler's appearance.

They were married at the end of the month and off to Scotland - Scotland, of all places! - for some absurd ritual called a "honeymoon".  A sex holiday, not that he and John Watson would be having sex.  Sherlock had made that very clear in their discussion prior to his acceptance of Saughton's proposal.  He had little interest in sharing bodily fluids with another person, even one legal bound to him.  Or maybe especially one thus bound.   It was bad enough that he would be expected to bring a child into the world, an heir for his new lord, but at least John didn't expect it to happen immediately.  
  
Another way that John Watson had surprised him.  Although hardly the first.  John was constantly surprising him.  
  
He was clever - not as clever as Sherlock, of course, but he saw things (after Sherlock pointed them out) and he understood, which was more than any of those imbeciles working with Lestrade.  And he helped Sherlock see things, somehow.  Illuminated the dark corners.  
  
Remarkable, really.  
  
And then there were the ways that John was proving he wasn't a typical Alpha.  He thought that Sherlock was clever.  He didn't expect Sherlock to service his sexual needs.  He thought that Sherlock should have a say in his own marriage contract.  He thought that Omegas should have rights. 

Sherlock had thought at first that it was because John had an Omega sibling, or that his lost-love had been one, and that Omega had been tragically forced into marriage or some other untenable situation, but that wasn't the case.  His former love, Mary something-not-important, was a Beta and not one to be forced into anything, although dreadfully prone to overly-dramatic displays.   John had had very few interactions with Omegas and his interest in their rights was purely altruistic.  Sherlock wasn't sure that he'd ever previously met someone who didn't have some sort of gain in mind.

And then there was the money.  It was clear that John needed the money, and desperately, but not for himself.  Left to his own devices, he seemed equally comfortable in a fine suit of clothes or a disreputable sweater and work boots.  Possibly even more at home in the latter, if truth were told.  He seemed to have few vices that involved money except for gambling, and something seemed to have occurred to nip that particular vice in the bud.  (Sherlock suspected that the deceased brother had racked up considerable gambling debts and that the settling of them put John right off of even the most innocent of flutters.)  At the parties they attended he passed right by the card room without so much as a look-in.  His spending habits were careful but not that of a miser, and he seemed genuinely fond of the property that he'd inherited even if he was often at a loss as to its management.  He was the sort of man who would open his pocketbook for a worthy cause but was not likely to be bamboozled into loosing the purse-strings for every sob-story.   
  
His morals appeared to be fixed although unique.  For while he had displayed no qualms at shooting the murderous cabbie, he refused to spy for Mycroft, even when offered a considerable sum of money.  That, in Sherlock's experience, was unprecedented.  Even Victor, who had seemed to sympathize with Sherlock's desire to be independent, had taken Mycroft's guineas.

But the biggest surprise had been how much John understood about the Work.

 _No one_ understood or valued the Work like Sherlock.  Mycroft viewed it as his little hobby, to keep him from getting bored and resorting to opium again.  Lestrade knew that Sherlock took the cases seriously but always seemed surprised that Sherlock continued to be interested, as if Sherlock would tire of it and go on to the next interesting past-time.  Lestrade's underlings were even less accepting, always looking at him as if he was about to go on a murderous rampage or start raving before being carted off to the madhouse.  But _John_ \- John understood Sherlock's interest and the importance of what he did.  John was always perusing the papers to see if there might be anything to appeal to Sherlock.  John was always ready to assist, right at Sherlock's heels as they leapt into the fray.  He never objected that these sorts of things weren't suitable for an Omega (well, Sherlock wouldn't have married him if he'd thought that was the case).  He tried to keep Sherlock from harm, but in the same way that he'd do for the general public.  He treated keeping Sherlock from being assaulted by villains as if it was of the same importance as getting him to eat and rest. 

John made Sherlock _better_.  He was doing brilliant work, he was sharper than ever before.  One only had to look at the case of the Murderous Cabbie and that of the Dancing Men to see the truth of that.

And then Irene Adler came along and the whole business went to hell.


	3. A Consummation Devoutly to be Wished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler disrupts their routine, but is this good or bad?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connected to Chapter 5 of "Three Continents" and Chapters 30-32 of "Watson's Folly"

Sherlock had a healthy sense of self, knew his value as well as his flaws.  Of the former the list was inexhaustible, but in the latter category he would admit these three things:  he was dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy.  All emotions, and in particular love, stood opposed to the pure, cold reason he held above all things.  Even his marriage was simply a practical solution to an  intolerable situation.    
  
In direct opposition to this was Irene Adler.  She was reputed to be very beautiful and, more than that, clever.  She was also an aberration among Omegas for she had not only dared to run away from her marriage but had made a successful career instead of dying in poverty and shame.  Of course, part of that success had come from bedding influential patrons, but even in that area she was unusual for she sought out Omegas.  She survived - no, _more_ than that, thrived - on the messy emotions of both herself and her lovers.  
  
It was incomprehensible.  When Sherlock looked at Irene (which was impossible to avoid as she was straddling his lap), he found her to be a complete mystery.  Not in a good way, like John; every time he looked at John, it was like being given a fascinating new story to read.  No, looking at Irene was like looking at a blank wall: there were no clues, no hints, and no sense of how she might be convinced to surrender the letters.  
  
It made him very uncomfortable.  
  
It made him even _more_ uncomfortable when John came back into the room to see that Sherlock was completely at a loss.  
  
John had never seen him fail like this before now.   And John had looked at Irene in an appreciative way - no doubt because she was showing that she was the most intelligent Omega in the room - before he blushed in that ridiculously attractive way of his and looked away.    
  
Irene knew it too for she teased John, saying, "Am I making you uncomfortable, Lord Saughton?"  
  
"I don't think John knows where to look," Sherlock snapped, wanting her to stop showing off for John.  Only he was allowed to do that.  
  
"Oh, he knows exactly where - he's just too much of a gentleman to do so."  She curled her legs up in the chair under her.  "There - is that better?"  
  
Sherlock frowned, puzzled by her words.  Was she implying that John was attracted to her physically?  Was that why he didn't want to look at her?  But that made no sense!  John had never shown a reluctance to look at the pretty women at Almack's.  Why would he be flustered by Miss Adler?  Unless it was the combination of beauty and brains.... That might be enough to claim John's attention away from Sherlock.    
  
He didn't like that and redoubled his efforts.  His smoke bomb worked perfectly and Irene betrayed the location of the letters with a glance, just as he had predicted she would.  He retrieved them and then displayed his prize to John once they were safely away.  And John smiled at him and called him brilliant, setting everything back to rights again.  
  
Sherlock should have recalled that Pride Goeth Before a Fall.  
  
He took John to dinner at Simpson's and it was a merry affair.  Buoyed by the success of this mission, Sherlock ordered champagne to celebrate and then regaled John with stories of some of his cases before they'd met.  John was all admiration and praise, his words making Sherlock flush even more than the spirits.  Perhaps that was why he was unaware that it was Irene Adler and not a young man who staggered into him, and that the clever Omega had pick-pocketed him with a skill he would have admired in anyone else.  But no, he hadn't realized until they were actually in Mycroft's presence, when he put his hand into his inner breast pocket and pulled out - not the letters - a note from Miss Adler in which she crowed about her triumph over him.  
  
Bad enough that it should happen in front of Mycroft for his brother had witnessed his few failures in the past and so it was no surprise to him when Sherlock failed to be clever.  No, he had failed in front of John, at the hands of another Omega, and that was more than he could bear.  He turned on his heel and left the building, climbing into the first cab that came along.  He was so lost in his black thoughts that he forgot to give the driver directions and thus failed to get away before John could join him.  
  
They didn't talk the whole way back to Baker Street and Sherlock could almost feel the disappointment coming off of John like a wave.  If only Sherlock had taken the letters to Mycroft first!  If only he hadn't indulged in the wine so that he was unaware of Miss Adler's presence!  He couldn't bear to look at John, to see the disapproval on his face.  
  
Of course John was polite and inquired about his well-being - John had, after all, gone to the aid of the cabbie moments after he shot him.  It was John's nature to be solicitous but Sherlock couldn't bear the pity in his gaze any more.  He didn't know what he said to John - something to make him go away, to leave him alone with his misery and his violin.  
  
Sherlock had always known that he'd lose John Watson's admiration and respect one day.  He just hadn't thought that it would be this soon.

* * *

  
The  Baskerville case was a blessing and it couldn't come too soon.  For a solid week, John had been subtly ignoring him, not even expressing an interest in finding a new case.  Sherlock was bored and he would have begged for something from Lestrade except that he was worried that John would turn his back and refuse to go with him now that Sherlock had proved that he had failed.  But something about the story that Mortimer told them appealed to John and so it was with relief that Sherlock agreed to take the case.  
  
The journey to Dartmoor was painful for it brought back pleasurable memories of their trips to and from Scotland only months earlier.  Sherlock felt the loss more than he would have thought possible.  He could feel John moving further away from him with every hour that passed, but the presence of Sir Henry, Dr. Mortimer, and even Wiggins prevented Sherlock from forcing a conversation that he was coming to realize was necessary.    
  
He was relieved when they finally reached their destination but his plan to secure privacy to talk with John went awry.  John was clearly in a difficult mood, taking offence easily, and Sherlock had a sinking feeling that John would announce he was returning to Saughton - alone - once the case was solved.  
  
However, that was proving to be more difficult than Sherlock had thought and he still had no clue as to the source of Sir Henry's problems by the time John returned from his morning stroll.  John seemed in an improved frame of mind which Sherlock thought owed much to his encounter with the lovely Mrs. Stapleton, but at least he was willing to sit down and report on what he'd learned of the neighbours.  John even attempted to apologize for his churlish behaviour the previous night.  Sherlock was relieved and responded in kind, and was in a better frame of mind when he joined the rest of the party for the drive to Lafter Hall.

Everything seemed to be going well, and then he made the decision to take the path along the moor and it all went to hell. 

Sir Henry seemed to have cast off his gloom and nerves while in Mrs. Stapleton's presence and led the way to Devil's Hollow.  Sherlock followed him, examining the pathway for signs of man or beast, uneasily aware that _something_ was wrong.  He felt as if someone, some _thing_ , was watching them.  The mist had risen and Sherlock was suddenly aware that John wasn't anywhere in sight.

"John?  John!"  He turned to look back down the path, hoping to see the reassuring sight of his husband.

A shriek came from behind him and he swung around abruptly, staring into the mist toward where Sir Henry had been.  An unearthly howl rent the air and there was another shriek form Henry as he came running back down the path as if a demon was on his heels.  Sherlock peered through the mist, trying to see what had frightened Henry, and then he saw it: a large and monstrous shape with burning red eyes.  He turned and followed on Henry's heels, his heart hammering with a feeling that he'd never felt before.

Fear.

And then John was there, at the end of the path, looking strong and dependable and so damned worried that Sherlock's relief nearly overwhelmed him.  However, hard on its heels was fury, for Sherlock was _damned_ if he was going to act like a fragile Omega by falling into a strong Alpha's arms.  He went past John without a word, into the Hall and up to their rooms.  It wasn't until he tried to remove his cravat that he realized that his hands were shaking.

Wiggins appeared a short time later bearing a pitcher of hot water for Sherlock to use for washing.  Sherlock snapped at him for the water was too hot and Wiggins too rough with his coat, but he was aware that he was being unreasonable.  He both wanted John to return to their room and dreaded his arrival, for when he came Sherlock would have to admit to the truth.  Impossible as it might seem, there was a Hell Hound on the moor.

And then John arrived, clearly agitated himself for Sherlock could smell his Alpha pheromones.  Sherlock admitted to what he'd seen only to be met with scepticism on John's part, and his husband's attempt to jolly him along, to appeal to reason, made something cold fill his stomach.  So Sherlock lashed out, like a wounded animal, trying to hurt even as he felt his mind separating from his body.  And then, to his own horror, he heard his voice speaking.

"I don't have friends."

And then John was gone.  Sherlock fell back into the chair and covered his face with his hands, trying not to weep.

* * *

There was a miracle.  John returned.  Sherlock realized by the sudden rush of oxygen to his brain that he had been barely breathing since John had walked out of the room, that he had been straining to listen for his return, hoping that he would return.  _And he had_.  
  
"John," he breathed.  
  
"Who else did you think would be entering our rooms at this hour?" John asked, settling his candle down on the night table.  
  
"I thought - I didn't think you would come back."  The words were out of Sherlock's mouth before he realized that he'd said them.  John said something but Sherlock could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.  "I apologize.  I know that I have been acting irrationally and in a manner I cannot even explain - "    
  
John once again tried to say anything but Sherlock stopped him. 

"Please, let me finish."  There was a long pause and then Sherlock said, haltingly, "What happened tonight ... Something happened to me, something I’ve not really experienced before..."  
  
"You were afraid," John said quietly, drawing closer, and Sherlock laced his fingers together to keep from reaching out to reassure himself that John was really there.    
  
"No.  I've been afraid before now, but earlier - I was terrified.  And more than that.  I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, but tonight..."  He broke off, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.  "I'm sorry.  I've disappointed you."  
  
"Of course not!" John said. "If I'd seen what you saw, I'd be bloody terrified!  And need a change of smalls."  
  
How like John to attempt to lighten the mood with humour!  Sherlock honoured that effort with a bit of honesty, cutting to the core of his misery over the past week.  "This wasn't the only time I've disappointed you lately."  
  
John frowned at him.  "When have you ever - "  
  
"The Adler matter," Sherlock said frankly.  "I allowed her to steal back the letters, right there on the street."  
  
"You hardly allowed... Wait."  John abruptly sat down on the hearth, staring at Sherlock as if he'd grown another head.  "Is that what's been bothering you all this past week?"   
  
"Yes, of course it was," Sherlock said, biting off the words "you idiot".  He didn't think it would help matters if he insulted John.  "What did you think it was?  And why are you sitting there?  You'll scorch your coat."  
  
"Damn my coat!" John snapped at him.  "I thought - I was afraid that you'd fallen in love with Irene Adler.  Or, at the least, envied her freedom."  
  
Sherlock stared at John as if he'd taken leave of his senses.  "In love?  With Miss Adler?  What a ridiculous idea!  I admire her ingenuity, it is true, and her determination, but that is all.  As for freedom..."  He scowled at John and shook his head.  "She is considerably less free than I - hunted and harried on all sides.  Only her quick wits have kept her alive this long.  My life with you has had _infinitely_ more advantages."  
  
This was clearly the right thing to say for John beamed at him as if he'd lit the sun.  "It has?"  
  
"Absolutely."  Sherlock hesitated then admitted, "As a matter of fact, I fail to see why she pursues the course of action she does."  
  
John blinked.  "What actions?"  
  
"Her numerous affairs," Sherlock said impatiently.  "Do keep up, John!"  He nearly bit his tongue at that slip but John was still grinning at him, a fond look on his face.  
  
"Sorry.  So - you don't understand why she has taken lovers as she has?"  
  
"Exactly.  She has talent; her voice is the Toast of many an opera house.  She could have fame, fortune, her Work.  A comfortable retirement when she leaves the stage.  Why waste herself flitting from one imprudent love affair to another?"  
  
John looked a little flustered at that and Sherlock found that he was intrigued.  He wondered for the first time just what John's past romantic involvements had been and thought that perhaps he should inquire about more information.  It could be very useful for future cases.  
  
"Er - well - sometimes it just...happens.  Falling in love.  And sometimes it's just...something that a person needs.  An itch to be scratched, so to speak."  
  
Sherlock considered this for a moment but it was beyond his scope of knowledge.  "It's incomprehensible to me."  
  
"I suppose it is."  John rose to his feet and stretched.  "Well, I don't know about you, but I've had enough excitement for one night.  I think I'll go to bed."  
  
Sudden panic filled Sherlock for the second time that night, and he couldn't bear to let John out of his sight.  "John!"  
  
John turned back to him, eyebrows raised inquiringly, and Sherlock struggled to find the words he wanted to say.  
  
"Would you..."  He cleared his throat.  "I find that I am still feeling...unsettled.  Would you...that is, I don't wish to impose but..."  His voice trailed off and he looked away, into the fire.  
  
"Would you like me to sleep in here tonight?" John asked.  
  
Relieved, Sherlock nodded.  After a few minutes of negotiation, they agreed to share the bed and John went to change.  Sherlock quickly banked the fire, removed his dressing gown, and slipped into bed facing the fire so that John could have his preferred position between Sherlock and the door.  After sharing good-nights, Sherlock felt himself relaxing for the first time in a week, and he quickly fell asleep.

* * *

  
  
It didn't last long, however.  His sleep was restless; his body felt over-warm under the covers while at the same time a cold emptiness in the pit of his belly.  His senses seemed unusually keen, particularly his sense of smell, and he could scent another Omega in his bed.  
  
He growled at that although he barely noticed for John was waking up, blinking at him in bewilderment.  His handsome face looked somehow younger, flushed with sleep, and so earnest as he tried to find what ailed Sherlock.  And he was so apologetic when he realized that it had been his inadvertent touching of Beryl Stapleton that was disturbing Sherlock, even offering to go sleep on the cold cot in the dressing room.  
  
Sherlock couldn't allow that.  "I know you, John," he said lowly, certain that John had not intended to hurt Sherlock.  "When I said earlier that I had no friends, what I really meant was that I have only one.  You don't know how important that is to me."  
  
John reached out, taking Sherlock's hand in his, covering the other Omega's scent with Sherlock's.  "To me as well."  
  
The touch of John's hand eased that cold place inside of Sherlock, warming it up.  At the same time, he had a sudden epiphany.  Perhaps he had been at fault when he'd derided Irene Adler earlier.  Perhaps he was making judgements in absence of facts.  And maybe he failed to understand the allure of physical pleasure because he hadn't ever experienced it.  He said as much to John, watching him frown in puzzlement.  
  
"What are you saying?" John asked.  
  
"I am saying that I wish to make a claim of my own." He tugged at John's hand, pulling him back into the centre of the bed.  "I believe that it is time for us to consummate our marriage, John."  
  
John seemed oddly uncertain, although perhaps it was the less-than-romantic way that Sherlock had phrased it.    
  
"Well, how am I to know how to do the thing?" Sherlock snapped. "I have no experience in such matters!"  He didn't like the feeling of uncertainty that he was experiencing.    
  
John must have sensed this for he leaned closer, his eyes focused on Sherlock's mouth.  "Then let me teach you," he said, his voice dropping in register.  It made that aching place inside of Sherlock heat up even more, especially when John took Sherlock's hand in his again and kissed the palm.  "Let me show you the pleasures of intimacy.  Let me give you the knowledge you seek, carnal knowledge of the flesh, so that you might better understand the motives of others."  
  
Sherlock could feel his breath catch, could barely get enough air in his lungs to breathe much less respond.  "Yes, John.  _Please_ ," he breathed.    
  
John shifted closer, his lips pressing against Sherlock's in a gentle kiss.  They'd kissed once before, at their wedding, but this kiss was different.  It was no less awkward but it was warm, it was lingering, and it was the start of something new.  Sherlock wanted more, needed more, but then John was pulling back, moving away.  Sherlock clutched at him, protesting.  
  
"Slowly, my dear," John murmured, kissing his cheek, his chin, his forehead.  Sherlock felt drunk on the sensations and on John's voice, as if the world was slightly out of focus, and he was vaguely aware that he was making sounds that he would be embarrassed to admit to if he'd been in his right mind.  But he couldn't regret them because they seemed to set John on fire as his husband pulled back just enough to strip off Sherlock's nightshirt before proceeding to show him just how sensitive his skin was to touch.  
  
And it was sensitive, and hungry for every sensation.  It was as if Sherlock had never been touched before, as if his entire body had been waiting all his life for John's touch, for the caress of his fingers and the texture of his tongue.  John was searching out every bit of sensation that Sherlock could feel, and it was the most intense experience that he had ever known.  
  
And then John bent his head and took Sherlock's penis in his mouth and it got impossibly better.  Sherlock gasped at the first sensation of a mouth on his most intimate flesh, his entire body quivering with this new pleasure he was experiencing. His hips bucked automatically, beyond his control, one hand tangling in John's hair to keep him from moving away, not that John seemed inclined to do so but Sherlock was beyond rational thought.  His body danced under John's expert touch as he touched Sherlock's most intimate opening, sliding his finger inside as he took all of Sherlock's prick into his mouth and sucked.  Sherlock felt his mind, his body, each nerve explode, and it was glorious!  
  
For several blesssed, blessed minutes, Sherlock felt that his mind and his heart were as one.  Even as his body shuddered with residual pleasure, all the noise that usually buzzed in his brain went silent, filling him with peace.  And, even better, John was still kissing him, covering his face with caresses and murmuring words of appreciation, as if Sherlock's pleasure had given _John_ pleasure.  
  
Which reminded Sherlock that John was still awaiting his own fulfilment.  As he'd caught his breath, Sherlock swiftly moved to reverse their positions and then proceeded to demonstrate that he'd been paying attention to John's first lesson in pleasure.  It was heady to trace his fingers over John's skin and hear his moans, to grasp his swelling cock and see John writhe at his touch, to take it in his mouth and listen to John's gasping praise.  All too quickly it seemed that it was over, that John was crying out and spending his seed in Sherlock's mouth.  He sucked and swallowed until there was no more, delighting in the idea that part of John was now part of him.  A glance upward told him that John was insensate, and with great satisfaction he settled by John's side and waited for him to open his eyes.  
  
After a few moments, John's eyes flickered open and he reached out to pull Sherlock to him, kissing him soundly.  Sherlock went willingly, thinking it was thanks for the pleasure given, until John's kisses intensified.  Sherlock realized in that same moment that he was achingly hard again and that his body felt oddly empty and needy.    
  
" _John_ ," he said, urgent with his need.  John's kisses became even more demanding as he encouraged Sherlock to rub against him but it wasn't enough and he repeated John's name even as he rolled onto his back and spread his legs to accommodate John's body.  His husband responded with alacrity, lifting one of Sherlock's legs to his shoulder and then pushing his cock into Sherlock's empty, needy body.  
  
_At last_ , something inside Sherlock seemed to say, and he instinctively rocked up into John's thrusts, panting with the need to pull John deep inside of him, until they melted and merged and became one.  And then his climax hit him with such force and blinding pleasure that Sherlock shouted and shook and finally blacked out.  
  
When he came to, he was wrapped tightly in John's arms.  His body ached deliciously in places he hadn't known could feel like that, and he was aware that he had been tidied up and bundled under the covers.  There was a bone-deep satisfaction, the sort of feeling he had felt after a very interesting case was concluded satisfactorily following an intoxicating chase at John's side.  For the first time in his life he felt a deep awareness of his physical body as more than mere transport, and he had a glimmer of understanding of the allure of sex.  And while he was still contemplating this, he fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

  
Sherlock woke into darkness and was immediately aware of three things: he was hot, he was uncomfortable, and he wasn't alone.  
  
The third item was the easiest resolved for he recognized John's breathing pattern from the few times they had shared a bed while travelling.  The first was also easily remedied by tossing back the covers to let the cooler night air wash over his skin, cooling the fever within.  The second, however, was much more difficult to solve as he wasn't entirely certain as to why he was uncomfortable.  A quick mental survey of his body confirmed that, while his nether regions were a trifle bit sensitive, his discomfort wasn't due to their recent sexual activity.  The source lay deeper, inside, where a sort of vague emptiness seemed to have lodged.  He needed something: a touch, a taste, a scent...    
  
John stirred, shifting the covers off of his chest, and Sherlock's focus sharpened.  _John_.  That was what he needed, the heat of his husband's flesh buried deep inside of his body.  Their earlier tryst had not garnered enough information, hadn't yet slaked his thirst. 

Sherlock pushed the rest of the covers away from John's body and allowed his eyes to drink his fill.  _Yes_.  This was what he wanted. He hadn't had a proper opportunity to touch John before, to explore his body as John had explored his.  Now was his chance and he didn't give a thought to the fact that John was still sleeping.  In fact, that was better because he had the time to search out all of his favourite bits, to compare the softness of the skin on John's belly to the sand-paper roughness of his cheek.  He had time to examine John's most intimate flesh, to caress it and feel the hot pulse of it in his hand.  He was almost sorry when John woke up. 

Almost.  Because with John awake and looking at him with that warm admiration in his eyes, Sherlock was aware once again of the aching emptiness of his body.  He shifted forward from where he was straddling John's thighs, carefully positioning his body before pushing back onto John's prick.  The way John moaned and gasped out a mild blasphemy made Sherlock feel smug, although that was swiftly dispelled as John planted his heels and pushed upward and in and _deep,_ and Sherlock couldn't help yelping in surprise.  And it was _brilliant_ , even better than before, and Sherlock closed his eyes to more fully chase his own pleasure.  And then John, amazing John, instead of grabbing him and fucking him, he grabbed the headboard and surrendered himself to Sherlock. 

" _John_ ," he said hoarsely, leaning down to press a hard kiss against John's mouth.  And then he began riding John in earnest, seeking pleasure for both of them until he collapsed, exhausted, against John's chest.  John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, cradling him close, and Sherlock thought hazily that he had never been happier in his life.

"I believe that I have gathered sufficient data for now," Sherlock murmured against John's skin.

"Good," John said, sounding as if he was half-asleep already.  "I don't think that I could survive another round of experimentation.  Not without a long rest."

Sherlock snorted and tried to move so that he could stretch out his legs only to discovered that they were somehow still connected.  Grumbling irritably about Alphas and their stupid knots, he surrendered himself to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock woke in the morning feeling better than he had in a long time, pleased with John and himself and the world, despite the lingering tenderness of his nether parts.  He was refreshed and eager to resolve the case, but also strangely reluctant to just wake John who was sleeping peacefully.  Neither did he want to go off on his own, without John.  Instead, he washed with the remaining water from the pitcher, then dressed and went in search of breakfast.  By the time he returned, John was stirring and Sherlock was pleased to share breakfast with him as they discussed the case.  Well, the previous night and then the case. 

And after that, all the pieces fell into places as nicely as one could wish, and the only one to meet an untimely end was Stapleton, the evil man behind the attempts on Sir Henry's life.  John reacted splendidly in the face of danger, shooting Stapleton in the shoulder with precise skill even while under the influence of the drugs, and then doctoring him.  And Sir Henry, once rid of his Hell Hound, rose to the occasion - Sherlock thought he would make a fine husband to Mrs. Stapleton when her period of mourning was over.

Best of all, however, was the way that John smiled at him and called him brilliant.  Sherlock could hardly wait to get back to London and proper cases, with John at his side.


	4. A Pregnant Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their return from Baskerville, Sherlock's life is changing in a way that he hadn't quite expected. At the same time, he makes a surprising self-discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connected to Chapters 33-34 of Watson's Folly
> 
> Not the Magnussen chapter, but it is coming!

Sherlock had no idea what was happening to him.  His stomach was in revolt, daily.  His mind seemed to be fogged, unable to focus.  He needed sleep to a ridiculous degree.  
  
_Clearly_ , there had been something in that chemical concoction of Stapleton's that had set his humours all awry, although it had now been a month since he'd been exposed to it.  It was impossible that it was something else.  Certainly not....that.  He hadn't even been in Heat.    
  
Although it would explain his sudden, inexplicable decision to mate with John while at Baskerville.  Not that he regretted taking that action, for he had learned much about the sort of pleasure a body could experience.  He could now imagine how a less controlled person could allow the pursuit of pleasure to take over their lives, or how a normal person could let the loss of their loved one to drive them to violent actions.  
  
As July - and the heat - continued, Sherlock felt both worse and better.  _Worse_ in that nothing that he ate wanted to remain in his body, and he found that he was both ravenously hungry while nauseous at the idea of food.  And _better_ in an odd way as he somehow felt more _connected_ to the world around him.  There was life inside his body, something _him+John_ , someone who would perhaps have his brilliance plus John's caring, his curls and John's eyes, his height and John's physical sureness.  It was annoying, but Sherlock found himself lost in daydreams about this unknown child when he should have been concentrating on a case.  When he realized he'd done that _again_ , he'd lash out - usually at John - and he was certain that his husband thought he had lost his mind.  
  
So now there was this blasted Coronation with the heavy robes and the heat and Mycroft's party - and Mary Morstan flitting around John as if she was a queen bee and he the only other bee in the hive (and really, he should warn John about what happened to those unfortunate drones).  Sherlock was _done_ with this party; he longed for quiet and coolness and his own bed.  So he slipped away from the others, just to lie down for a few minutes where there weren't a dozen people chattering in shrill, loud voices.  But _of_ _course_ John saw him and followed, because John was just _impossible_ in that way - and really, was it too much to ask for a little solitude?  
  
But then John somehow made things better, in that odd, ineffable way that he did.  He made Sherlock drink a cordial, and he hadn't realized just how thirsty he was until then, and it didn't upset his stomach like everything else had.  Sherlock relaxed, became unguarded, telling John the truth when he hadn't planned to do so just yet.  And instead of acting like a strutting cock-proud Alpha or trying to wrap him in cotton-wool, he'd giggled.  Giggled!  Just like at a crime scene, and Sherlock would rather be tortured than admit it but he loved John's giggle.  There was just something so infectious about it.  So he couldn't regret telling John, especially when he agreed to keep Mycroft in the dark.  
  
After that, his health seemed to improve, although the nausea didn't entirely go away.  John was solicitous but not overbearing.  Sherlock's primary worry, that John would forbid him to pursue cases any more, was quickly pushed out of his thoughts.  In fact, when they received the urgent message from Miss Hunter, John had been the one to urge him to take up the case and had been right behind him as they raced to save her and the captive Omega.  That had been enough to make Sherlock cast aside his last doubts, and even to take John's advice when Sherlock finally, _finally_ , was allowed to testify in Court.  
  
And then, as before, Irene Adler appeared on the scene and ruined _everything_ \- or tried to.  
  
The jury had returned a verdict of guilty and John had been full of praise for Sherlock's testimony.  Preening under the compliments, Sherlock entered Baker Street to find that the air was redolent of the scent of another Omega, one that was familiar.    
  
"Why in bloody hell is she here?" he demanded, looking up the stairs where the scent seemed strongest.  
  
They found Irene Adler lying in his bed, asleep.  John was incensed and worried and Sherlock not much happier, but at least he knew that his husband wasn't interested in the Woman.  He couldn't understand why she'd intruded on their home, though, and had sought out their aid when there must have been others whom she could have turned to.  
  
The reason became abundantly clear later that evening, after dinner, when John left them to secure the house for the night.  Irene moved closer, abandoning her light-hearted flirtatiousness and going to her knees in front of Sherlock.  
  
"Come with me," she said to him, deadly serious, her eyes fixed on his face.  "Leave this place and come away!"  
  
For once in his life, Sherlock was caught by surprise.  He stared down at her, kneeling at his feet, and tried to comprehend her words.  "I believe that you have misinterpreted my interest - "  
  
Irene shook her head.  "Don't be dull - not you!  Yes, I find you attractive and I don't usually _like_ male Omegas, but that's not the point!  You are too brilliant to remain shuttered here!  You should be _out there,_ living a full life!  You should see the world - in person, not in paintings or books!  Not through someone else's words!  France, Italy, India, the Orient!  Colours and scents and sounds - and you could be _part_ of it!  Not sitting here, working for _them_!" Irene said passionately, earnestly.  "You're clever.  You could belong to _yourself_ , not to some brainless Alpha who'll tie you to the hearth and cradle."  
  
Her words were tempting, and he would have liked to see the world for himself, but not like this.  _Not without John_ , said a little voice inside his head, one that sounded remarkably like his husband.  And where was John?  Irene was too close and he wanted her away from him. 

"John's not like that.  He appreciates my cleverness."  
  
Irene made a scoffing sound.  "Perhaps now, but he wants to get you into his bed, to put a baby in your belly, like all Alphas.  Once that happens, he'll stop caring about your mind."    
  
Involuntarily, Sherlock's hand moved to rest over his abdomen.  Could it be true?  Could John only want him because he wanted an heir?  But John had been so good to him, so patient, not pressuring him for his rights as a husband and Alpha.  Surely he would have bedded Sherlock earlier if he only wanted him for breeding?  
  
Irene drew in a sharp breath, pulling her hand away and sitting back on her heels.  "He's already done it, hasn't he?" she asked, disbelieving.  "You let him _have you_? An ordinary, dreary, dull _Alpha_!   With all the world at your feet, _that_ is what you choose?"  
  
_Yes_ , Sherlock wanted to say, for it was suddenly clear to him that staying here with John was what he would choose.  No matter how interesting Irene Adler was, home was with the rather prosaic John Watson.  Given the whole world of possibilities - travel, fame, wealth, all of it - in the end, he would choose _John_. 

He closed his eyes, not wanting Irene to see this moment, this intensely _personal_ realization that he was in love with his husband.  It didn't matter that John didn't love him in return, that he had married Sherlock for practical reasons.  John was fond of him, he knew that, and John thought that he was clever, and was proud of him, and there were times when he looked at Sherlock with clear affection in his eyes.  That was enough, it would have to be enough, because Sherlock knew without a doubt that his own heart had made its decision.  
  
Irene sighed and rose to her feet.  "You're a fool, Sherlock Holmes, which is something I never thought I would say.  But then, the heart loves where it will, doesn't it?"    
  
Sherlock stood up, moving away from her and breathing easier once he'd done so.  "Tomorrow will start early; we should retire."  Politely, he escorted her to the stairs where Wiggins was waiting to see her to her temporary room.  
  
"His nibs was lookin' a bit blue," Wiggins murmured to him as they passed. 

Sherlock nodded, his heart sinking as he realized that _of course_ John had heard that conversation.  What was he thinking?  Had he hoped that Sherlock would run off with Irene?  That would give him the right to divorce Sherlock and take their child, and maybe even marry again?  Surely John was just as content with their life as he was?  John was silent, lying on his side, and Sherlock changed in silence before sliding into bed.  It felt odd to share the bed, but comforting all the same.  Sherlock found himself wishing that he could wrap himself around John for he felt frozen where he lay.    
  
He could feel John turn toward him and waited for angry words and accusations.  "Sherlock - " he began, then paused.  "She's wrong.  I think you're _brilliant_ , and I always will.  I never want to make you into just a vessel for my children."  
  
Relieved, Sherlock turned onto his back.  "I know.  I can't say that I'm not tempted at the thought of travelling the world but I am happy with the Work, with my life here."  
  
"We could travel.  Once the child is old enough," John said.  "Engage a nanny.  Do the Grand Tour - maybe go to India or to China.  If you want.  I know I'm not clever like Irene but - "  
  
"Hush," Sherlock said, rolling onto his side and placing his fingers over John's mouth.  He hated when John said things like that.  Sherlock could say them, but not John, _never_ John.   "You are not as idiotic as most, and I have found your contributions invaluable to my work."  
  
"As a conductor of light, so you've said."  
  
"More than that, John," Sherlock said earnestly.  It was important that John believe him.  "You have a steadiness of disposition that provides an anchor for my own moods.  You are fearless in the face of danger, as the Baskerville case proved, and you have a core of integrity which provides my moral compass.  Could anyone ask for better from their life's companion?"  
  
He felt as if he could sense John smiling at him in the dark.   "Thank you.  I feel.... You know that you saved my life.  In so many ways."  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  "Might I ask a favour, then?"  
  
"I would be prepared to give you anything you wished," John said in reply.  "Even the Crown Jewels, though they might be difficult to obtain."  
  
"Not to mention gaudy - and what on earth would I do with them?  Nor do I relish bearing this child alone while you reside in gaol." 

Really, how could John say something so _ridiculous_ while at the same time being so adorable and kind?  John started giggling and the sound was so infectious that Sherlock found himself laughing as well. 

"What do you wish?" John asked when they finally controlled their mirth.  
  
"Merely to rest within your arms tonight," Sherlock said, leaning up on his elbow to look down at John.  "I often have difficulty sleeping, the exception being the two nights that I slept close to you."  
  
Wordlessly, John held out his arm, and Sherlock curled up against his good shoulder, sighing in contentment.  There was the comforting scent of Alpha and the warmth of John's arm wrapped around him, and just as he was hovering on the edge of sleep, he felt the press of lips against his hair.  For the first time in months he felt at peace.    
  
He was asleep in minutes.


	5. Intolerable Interference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaming Mycroft for his interference, Sherlock goes to Scotland where he is miserable. Fortunately for him, John is prepared to take on doctors and brothers-in-law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Covers chapters 35-37 of "Watson's Folly"

Mycroft ruined everything, of course.  He _always_ ruined things for Sherlock.    
  
Sherlock considered this as he leaned against a corner of the carriage as they drove north to Scotland.  He would have loved to have thrown a tantrum but he was too tired and sick to do more than doze and fume.    
  
And everything had been going so well before Mycroft had stuck his abnormally big nose into business not his own!  His sickness had miraculously disappeared and foods had tasted _amazing_ , and his appetite had picked up.  When he looked in the mirror, he had been secretly pleased to see the slight rounding of his belly.  Proof of the life inside.    
  
John was sleeping each night in his bed.  Well, except for that one night when they had miscommunicated somehow and John had gone to his own bed.  When Sherlock had finished his experiment and gone upstairs, he had been puzzled to see that his bed was empty.  He had stared at it for several long minutes, his tired brain unable to comprehend the emptiness, and then he'd gone into John's bedroom.  John had been curled up under the duvet and he'd looked so comfortable that Sherlock had simply shed his dressing gown and climbed into bed with him.  John had stirred awake and had grumbled but, rather to Sherlock's surprise, had wrapped his warm feet around Sherlock's cold ones and gone back to sleep.  
  
They hadn't slept apart since then.  Not until Mycroft had interfered.  
  
Dr. Samuels had been like being doused in cold water.  Nothing about Sherlock had pleased him.  He was too tall for an Omega, his hips were too narrow to carry successfully, he weighed too much, he was too pale but also too phlegmatic and needed to be bled.  Samuels spoke ominously about the dangers of childbirth, about those who hadn't heeded his words and had paid the ultimate price.

For the first time since he'd realized that he was pregnant, Sherlock felt fear.  The image of Sherrinford, lying pale and still in her coffin with her little baby beside her, escaped from the dark prison where he'd locked those memories.  Only it was _Sherlock_ lying in the coffin instead of Sherry.    
  
Faced with this sudden fear, he retreated to his bed and buried himself under the covers.  John had stayed away, and Sherlock wasn't certain if it was because he wanted to stay away or whether Sherlock had shut him out.  Afraid of the answer, he was reluctant to ask John back into his bed.  

And John looked just as unhappy to be exiled to Scotland, which made Sherlock feel guilty because John _loved_ Saughton, but he loved London even more.  And Sherlock was the cause of his exile.  
  
Finally they were in Saughton and out of that miserable carriage, but despite his initial excitement about coming here to see to the bees and his experiments, now he found that he couldn't rouse himself enough to care.  His energy was nil, his temper volatile, and his sleep barely restful.  The only bright spot was when John would coax him into curling up on the sofa with him.  Sherlock would recline with his head in John's lap while he read to him or massaged his temples.  Sometimes Sherlock would even manage to sleep for a little while, his stomach at ease and his nerves calmed, but those moments were rare.  John had his duties about the estate and was _clearly_ irritated by Sherlock's continuing malaise.  
  
It was Mrs. Turner who suggested that a walk on the estate might help both his digestion and his sleep.  Sherlock didn't believe her but at least walking relieved the tedium of his every day.  The grounds were beautiful and the temperature moderate, and he found himself following the walkway through the cemetery in his daily strolls.  The path was shaded and oddly restful, and there were benches set in convenient areas, which he found helpful as his energy flagged.    
  
His favourite bench was the one overlooking the last resting place of James Watson, 17th Earl of Saughton, surrounded by four of his seven children.  It was peaceful and pretty, and Sherlock contemplated what would one day be his destination.  A feeling of fatalism had seeped into his soul and he knew, as well as he knew his own name, that he and the child he carried would soon be buried beneath this soil.  It was a melancholy thought but oddly soothing.  
  
He was sitting on his favourite bench one September afternoon, contemplating Eternity, when John came storming along the pathway looking like thunder.  Absently, Sherlock wondered what had so angered John, but it was an abstract sort of thought, as if it belonged to someone else.  
  
"What in the blo - blazes do you think you're doing?" John demanded, and Sherlock realized that it was him that John was angry with.  
  
"I should think that would be clear, even to you," Sherlock said, although he couldn't summon his usual bite.  "It's quite peaceful in this part of the cemetery.  Your brother is here, and his children," he said, pointing to the row of tombstones before him.  "I think that I would like to be buried over there," he added, gesturing towards an empty section in the far corner.  "There is adequate space for you and your second spouse, should you wish it."  
  
"I do _not_ wish it!" John snapped.  "There will be no 'second spouse' as I intend to keep my _first_ for a great number of years, thank you very much!"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous, John - " Sherlock began, but John was on a tear.  
  
"I'll tell you what is ridiculous!" John snapped, waving the paper clutched in his fist in Sherlock's face. Sherlock realized that it was his Will, and he resolved to tear a strip off of Wiggins, if he could summon the energy.   "I never saw such a chuckle-brained document in my life!  Suggesting that Georgie might be an 'appropriate' godparent to help raise our son?  I love my niece, but she's no more fit to look after a child than a _monkey_!  She'd no doubt diaper the wrong end of the child!"  He tore the will into several small pieces, scattering them to the wind.    
  
That penetrated through the apathy that enshrouded Sherlock like a winding cloth.  "John - " he began, a scowl on his face.    
  
"Up with you," John said, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pulling him up from the bench.  "We're going away for a few days."  
  
Sherlock might have protested, but he was suddenly aware that John's hand was warm and it was making his own hand warm, and that he was chilled.  He shivered and followed as John dragged him to the waiting carriage.  It wasn't even until they were on the high road that he thought to ask where they were going.  
  
"Hatton House," he replied.  "The Dowager returned last week and bid us break our bread with her one evening."  
  
"Is she aware that she is to be our host tonight?" Sherlock inquired shrewdly.  
  
John shrugged.  "Not yet."    
  
He gave Sherlock a sideways look, that of a mischievous lad, and Sherlock was startled into a laugh.  John grinned back at him and the sight of that smile warmed the chill inside of Sherlock for the first time in weeks.  
  
The butler at Hatton bowed them in with no hint that they weren't expected and before long they were sitting down at table with the Dowager Countess of Dalmahoy.  After dinner, she demanded news about their most recent cases and obligingly John began telling her.  Of course he left out all the most important details so Sherlock interrupted to fill these in, nibbling on the tea cakes as he did, not realizing just how many he'd consumed until the maid returned to remove the tray.  He was appalled, knowing that Dr. Samuels would not approve, but John looked so pleased with him that Sherlock couldn't say a word.  
  
He was tired so he retired to the bedchamber prepared for them, falling asleep almost before his head touched the pillow.  His sleep could not have been said to be restful, though - not until John slid into bed beside him.  Half-awake, he shifted closer to his husband's beckoning warmth, then fell into the deepest sleep that he'd managed in over a month.  
  
Sherlock awoke in the morning feeling relaxed and warm and content from top to toe.  John was still asleep in the bed beside him; Sherlock was tempted to touch him, to wake him, just to see his sleepy morning smile, but recalling the distance between them he stayed his hand.    
  
Wiggins was waiting for him in the adjoining dressing room, hot water ready for his wash and shave, and a basin at the ready.  Oddly enough, for the first time in weeks he didn't feel nauseous.  In fact, he felt a bit peckish.  He washed and dressed, then made his way down to the breakfast room.  
  
The Dowager was there, presiding over the coffee urn, and she gave him a sharp look as he entered, then nodded.  "You look a sight bit better this morning," she said, passing him a cup.  "I don't mind saying that you looked like Death on a stick when you arrived."  
  
He accepted the cup and served himself from the plate of kippers, adding a pudding and some late-season fruit as well.  They weren't on the diet but he was heartily sick of bland food, and since he had an appetite for once, he was going to take advantage of it.  
  
"My dear, I understand difficult pregnancies - my Clara had more than her share of them - but you are frightening John to death," she said frankly.  "I've advised him to seek out a new physician for you."  
  
Sherlock scowled but admitted that he wouldn't mind a second opinion.  Looking back on the past few weeks after just one restful night, he could see that his behaviour had been odd.    
  
John arrived a few minutes later, looking absurdly relieved to see Sherlock there, and Sherlock realized that his husband had been extremely concerned for him, no doubt given his recent mood.  It made him feel strange inside, for although Mycroft had annoyed him by worrying about him over the years, he'd never shown this degree of care over Sherlock.  
  
He didn't realize just how much John cared about his health and well-being until that evening when John told him that he was going to consult another specialist about Sherlock's pregnancy.  Sherlock somehow blundered in his reply, inferring that John would be able to remarry if Sherlock died, and John's temper flared at the insult to his honour.  
  
"It's more than just my honour, Sherlock!" John snapped.  "I like you.  Quite a bit, in fact.  I consider you my best friend, not just my husband."  
  
That thought was more than Sherlock could comprehend and he couldn't think for several long minutes.  He must have looked like a bedlamite for John laid his hand on the sleeve of Sherlock's dressing gown to catch his attention.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, refocusing on John's face.  " _I_ am your best friend?" he said, perplexed by that thought.  No one considered Sherlock their friend, much less a _best friend_.  His brother loved him because they were blood and Lestrade tolerated him for his assistance.  
  
John smiled at him, and it was clear that he wasn't making a May game of Sherlock with his words.  "Yeah.  Of _course_ you are.  You're brilliant, and amazing, and I enjoy every day we spend together."  
  
Sherlock didn't know quite what to say to that but he feared that if he stood there any longer he would blurt out his true feelings for John, and that would ruin everything.  John might like him, quite a bit if he was to be believed, but hearing that Sherlock was in love with him would make him draw away.  He would insist on putting distance between them, which was the last thing that Sherlock wanted.  In a desperate need to recover his independent mien, he retreated towards the study door but John's voice called him back.  
  
"Shall we try Dr. McCormick?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  "I suppose we have nothing to lose.  Clara mentioned his name earlier today, said that he was the best of the lot.  Apparently she wouldn't have Archie if not for Dr. McCormick."  He opened the door and stepped into his bedchamber, turning briefly back toward his husband.  "Good-night, John."  
  
Fearing that his next words would be an entreaty for John to join him in his bed, he hastily closed the door between their bedrooms and then stood leaning against it until Wiggins came looking for him, to help him undress for bed.

* * *

  
The next morning Sherlock's malaise returned with a vengeance, and he spent much of the day reclining on the sofa.  His appetite was non-existence and he felt exhausted, but his rest did allow him to mull over the matter of John's regard for him.  John thought he was amazing and interesting, called him his best friend.  Sherlock knew that he didn't warrant that appellation, for he treated John shockingly.  He ignored him, forgetting him at crime scenes.  He belittled his intelligence and mocked his attempts to solve clues.  He forced him to dance with him at parties when he knew John disliked the pastime.  His enforced idleness made him think about all of this, and by evening he was heartily disgusted with himself.  
  
But he could make amends, he thought.  With that laudable goal in mind, he knocked on John's bedchamber door that night and went in to see him, pledging to John to be better.  
  
To his surprise, John didn't take it with the relief that Sherlock was certain he would.  
  
"Don't do that!" John exclaimed.  Sherlock stared at him in shocked surprise and John crossed the room to take his hands.  "Sherlock, I wouldn't want you to be other than the way you are.  Surely you know that."  
  
"I - " Sherlock paused, considering, then nodded.  Once again, he was ashamed of himself.  John was not the sort of man to demand that others change their nature in order to make him happier.  Sherlock would do it -- well, he would _attempt_ to do it  -- but he wouldn't make the mistake of causing John to feel guilt over the changes in his behaviour. "Yes.  I do know that."  
  
"Good."  John leaned up to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek.  "Good night, my dear.  Sleep well."  
  
"Thank you," Sherlock managed to say.  "I believe that I shall."    
  
Once again, he retreated to his own bedroom and then sat in the chair before the fire, his fingers resting against his cheek, and he could almost feel the mark from that kiss on his skin.    
  
He was sick again the next morning, heartily tired of feeling like that, and willing to listen to anyone who might offer relief.  John did what he could to help settle him and Sherlock managed a short nape, but Dr. McCormick's arrival woke him. Sherlock was reluctant to suffer the intrusive attentions of yet another doctor, but Dr. McCormick soon put him at ease.  There was nothing of pretence with him, and his fatherly air soon put Sherlock at ease.  His examination was quick and professional, as little intrusive as he could be, and at the end of it he set Sherlock's mind at ease on a number of matters.  
  
"I see nothing to worry about with the width of your hips," he said frankly.  "If you were a Beta, your leanness might be a worry, but you are an Omega, and your body was designed to assist in childbirth.  That's not to say that I approve of how thin you are, nor of your diet.  You are nourishing a growing babe, and you need considerably more in the way of food yourself.  And yes, I know that you are having difficulty in keeping down food, but there is a very simple solution to that problem.  Tell me, Lord Sherlock - do you have any objection to sharing your husband's bed?"  
  
Sherlock gaped at him.  "I - I fail to see what that has to do with anything."  
  
"It is simple biology, my lord.  Omegas depend on the protection and comfort of their Alphas.  Without their presence, in more primitive times, a pregnant Omega was likely to lose their child in order to clear the way for a new mate."  
  
Sherlock's hands settled protectively over his abdomen.  "I don't want to lose it!"  
  
"Then I suggest you and Lord Saughton revise your sleeping arrangements, unless you object to that idea."  
  
His body abruptly heated up at the image of lying curled up in John's arms again, and Sherlock flushed slightly.  "No, I don't object."  
  
"Good.  I believe you will discover that you will sleep better, that the nausea will ease, and you will recover your appetite.  And I will leave a new diet plan with your Cook, after I speak with your husband."  
  
"Dr. McCormick..." Sherlock hesitated.  "We have a residence in London, but the other doctor thought it unhealthy to remain there..."  
  
"Ah, yes, the cases that Dr. Watson has written up!  Brilliant, absolutely brilliant."  McCormick gave him a keen look.  "You must miss it."  
  
And Sherlock did, so fiercely at that moment that he knew it was on his face.  McCormick reached over to place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.    
  
"Then you should return to London, when you are once more fit to travel, if that's what you wish.  A few weeks of rest and good eating, and you should be able to tangle with thieves and murderers.  But no mad chases, mind!" he admonished.  
  
"London!" Sherlock breathed, his eyes lighting up.  
  
McCormick left but Sherlock was hardly aware of it.  Before his eyes was the image of Baker Street, of the morgue, of the cases he had pursued there.  When John entered his room a short while later, he couldn't keep himself from rushing over and grasping his hands.    
  
"John!  Did you hear?  I am to be allowed my Work, and to return to London, should we wish!"  His excitement faded a little as he said, anxiously, "You _do_ wish to return to London, don't you, John?"  
  
"I do, indeed - as soon as you would like," John said promptly.  "Tomorrow, if you choose."  
  
But now that he was allowed his Work, Sherlock immediately recalled all the things he'd wanted to do while in Scotland.  There were the hives to be established, and his distilling equipment to be unpacked.  He agreed with John that the best thing to do would be to wait till the end of October - which would also allow Sherlock time to regain his health.    
  
He threw himself into that effort, eating more and tending to his experiments.  He slept at night in John's bed, by their agreement, and immediately his nausea eased while his rest improved.  It was bliss, to feel well again, and to sleep curled up next to his husband.    
  
John was careful not to intrude upon him personally.  Sherlock didn't know how to feel about that.  On the one hand, he wasn't terribly interested in sexual relations for the most part.  However, there were times when, lying next to John as he slept, he felt a longing for....something.  A touch, a kiss, a caress - something, but he couldn't put a voice to it.  
  
Still, he was content with his life and happy with their plans to return to London after the Hunt Ball.  A bonus was that Georgia would be going with them, to get a taste of the Little Season .  
  
And so in late October, their goods were packed up and the carriage prepared for the trip south.  Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him as he secured his travel bags and he turned back to his husband, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"John?"  
  
"You are well, aren't you?" John asked, taking his hand and peering seriously into his eyes.  
  
"Very well," Sherlock replied, then said irritably.  "Don't fuss, John."  
  
John grinned at him, as if he'd said or done something brilliant, and leaned forward to kiss his cheek.  "Yes, dear," he said teasingly, then turned to allow Georgia to climb into the carriage.  Immediately, John and Georgia began to bicker about whether the carriage windows should be open or closed and where they would stop for the first change of horses. 

Sherlock let the arguments flow over him and decided that he was going to enjoy this return trip much more.  And he could hardly wait to see the look on Mycroft's face when he saw them back in Baker Street. He smiled as he pictured the confrontation between John and his brother, and he knew without a doubt who would win. _That_ would teach Mycroft to keep his nose out of their business!  
 


End file.
